The Mirror's Wrong
by jennytork
Summary: After a case gone south, Dean's reflection isn't what he expects. Written for the tags challenge at "hoodie time" on LJ. My tag was "body image issues".


Sam carded his hand through his sleeping brother's damp hair. Poor Dean had been through the wringer tonight.

For all their banter about "routine salt-n-burn"s, both brothers knew there was really no such thing. It depended on so many factors that Sam had given up counting them all.

Tonight's had been a prime example of one gone horribly south. The spirit had seemed to have it out for Dean, going after him again and again.

Just before Sam had dropped the lighter into the grave, the spirit had slammed Dean's head into a tombstone, knocking him unconscious.

Dean had been damned lucky the blow hadn't fractured his skull. As it was, he had a concussion and would have to recover for a while.

If everything checked out okay in the morning, Dean would be released from Observation. Sam fully intended to head to Bobby's after, so his big brother could recover in safety.

And while they were there, perhaps Sam could figure out why Dean kept looking at him so strangely.

Underneath his hand, Dean stirred. He sniffed once, then his eyes slowly opened and tilted up to see who was stroking his hair - and there was the weird look again.

Like Dean simply couldn't believe what he was seeing. "...Sammy?"

He smiled. "Yeah, Dean - I'm here."

"You...okay in there?"

Sam frowned. 'In there'? "I'm okay, Dean. Really. You got the worst of it."

"Doubtful." But he closed his eyes and with a long, soft sigh, fell back to sleep.

Sam's frown deepened. Something was definitely off, here.

"Home again, home again, jiggety jig," Dean sighed as he sank onto his bed in the motel room, then suddenly looked around as if to check that it was okay.

Sam took note of the look and added it to the "strange things going on since Dean got concussed" list. "Nursery rhymes, man?" he teased. "You go down to five when I wasn't checking?"

"Nah, eight at least," Dean teased back, toeing off his boots. "Mind if I catch a few zz's while you talk to Bobby?"

"No, go ahead." The doctor had said Dean would sleep more while he was recovering, so Sam wasn't worried about that. He dialed as Dean curled on top of the covers.

Sam talked quickly to Bobby, informing him they would be leaving sometime tomorrow morning. When he hung up, he grinned over at Dean. "He said to take care of yourself - idjit."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, sounds like Bobby. I'm hungry."

"I'll go get you something. You rest, okay?" At Dean's nod, he stood up and grabbed his money clip and the Impala keys. He glanced through the parted curtains as he walked by, seeing Dean get up out of bed and head toward the bathroom.

Grinning fondly and shaking his head, Sam headed out for food.

"Dean?" Sam let himself into the room and set the food on the desk. "Dean, I'm back."

Dean's bed was empty. Sam frowned, looked around and blinked to find a shape curled up on the bed furthest from the door. He walked over and around the bed, to find Dean curled in a tight ball under the covers. He frowned deeply to see what looked to be tear tracks on Dean's cheeks.

Almost as if his big brother had curled up in here and quietly cried himself to sleep.

He carded his hand through the ungelled soft blond locks, a little disturbed that the touch didn't wake Dean. He must still be hurting from the concussion, Sam decided. Well, he'd be more comfortable in his own bed.

Thus decided, Sam pulled the covers off of his brother.

And froze, his eyes going huge and his jaw lowering.

Dean was in Sam's clothes. From the grey socks to the green trackpants to the black hoodie he seemed to be swimming in.

"What the HELL...?"

And THAT was what woke Dean. He frowned softly, gummy lashes parting to reveal glazed green eyes. They rolled aimlessly for a moment, then focused on Sam. "Oh, hi," he whispered. "You're back."

"Dean..." Sam sat heavily on the bed, not certain he wanted to know the answer, but NEEDING to know at the same time. "Dean, wh...why are you dressed like that?"

Dean shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the coverlet that now lay to his side. "I just wanted to make it a little easier on you."

"Make WHAT a little easier on me?"

Dean looked at him like he was suddenly speaking Sanskrit. "This," he said, his hand flying between the two of them. "Us. Like this."

Sam stared at him, then shook his head. "Dean... man, you're not making SENSE. What are you talking about?"

He was treated to the rare sight, amusing in any other context, of Dean's jaw slowly dropping open as his eyes went huge and round. "You sure I'M the one who got his bell rung, Sammy?"

"Dean." Sam reached out and caught a tear on his fingertip, pulling it away. "You're upset."

"No, not really ... doc said that I'd cry. Something about the concussion screwing with emotional controls..."

"You still haven't answered my question. My clothes. My bed. What's going on?"

Another one-shouldered shrug. "Figured it'd be easier on you to see your body dressed like you and in the right bed. Besides, these fit better than mine. You're really huge, you know that?"

And suddenly everything made horrifying sense. The looks in the hospital. The "you okay in there" question. "Aw, man, you think you're in my body?"

"No, I don't THINK I'm in your body, doofus. I AM in your body. And you're in MINE."

"Newsflash, Dean - you're in YOUR body. And you look RIDICULOUS in my clothes."

Dean glared at him and sat up gingerly. "That better not be a salad."

"It's a salad. For ME. You get soup - doctor's orders."

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, his arms trembling with the effort of holding him up. His voice was quiet. "I'm really still me?"

"You're really still you."

"You're not six-one and blond?"

"No, Dean. Six-four and brunet."

"Why do I see myself when I look at you, then?"

Sam shrugged, spreading his hands. "The concussion, maybe?"

"Maybe." Dean scratched near his nose, where a mole would have rested if he truly was inside of Sam. "I'm hungry and I've got a bitch of a headache. Can we talk about this later?"

"Sure, Dean. you eat and rest and I'll do some research. See if it's from the concussion or from somethng else."

"Fair enough."

Sam looked up from the laptop when Dean sat up, groaning in pain. He staggered to his feet and lurched his way to the bathroom.

Concerned for him, Sam followed.

He found Dean adjusting his t-shirt over his boxers as the toilet flushed, and leaned against the doorjamb.

Dean washed his hands and then froze, staring in the mirror and turning his face from side to side. "I dunno, Sammy," he finally said.

"What?" Sam asked.

Sighing, Dean said, "I'm still seeing you in the mirror." His hands rose and, to Sam's eyes, the pointer fingers slid through thin air about midway down Dean's neck as his head tilted backward slightly, then shook slightly in one sharp motion.

Sam felt his eyes widen as he realised exactly what he was seeing - Dean was adjusting longer hair so it sat better. It was bizarre, since all Sam could see was ungelled blond spikes sticking up every which way from Dean's nap. "You're even feeling my hair."

"Yeah." He screwed up his face and scratched below the nape of his neck. "It's itchy and a little hot. I'm not used to it."

"With any luck, you won't have to get used to it. Because you'll be yourself again - I mean, you're yourself NOW, but you'll be able to SEE that you're yourself again...I mean..."

"Sammy," Dean laughed. "Quit while you're behind, huh?" He glanced back in the mirror, running his tongue over his straight teeth - Sam really needed to ask him when he got the last of the caps done - and a palm over his cheek. "Damn, I even got your crooked front tooth and DIMPLES. How in the HELL are the girls not fallin' at your FEET, huh?"

Sam huffed a soft laugh. "Not my thing, Dean."

"Yeah, that's the whole problem, right there. Maybe if your thi-"

"Stop RIGHT there, Dean."

Dean grinned at him. "Okay, sorry. Seriously, did you turn anything up to explain..." He gestured toward the mirror. "Cause I know you're tellin' me you're still the one six-four and brunet, but I swear, I ain't seein' that."

"I'm thinkin' it's from the concussion. Sometimes when they happen, people temporarily lose a sense because of the area of the brain that's swollen and unable to do its job properly. Some lose their sight, some lose their hearing, some get numbness in their extremities..."

"But THIS?" Dean interrupted. "This is a hell lot more complicated!"

"Not really," Sam said. "There is a portion of the brain that controls our self-image - how we see ourselves and define ourselves in relation to the people around us. And it's pretty damn near where you got your bell rung."

Dean felt the wound, wincing slightly as it made its displeasure at the pressure well-known. "So it's...affecting how I see myself."

"Basically."

"Okay, Einstein - if it's what you say it is, then how come I see myself as YOU? And how come I see YOU standing there with MY blond hair and bowed legs?"

Sam smiled sadly at him. "Because your mind filled in the details accurately - but a little rattled by the concussion."

Dean hummed thoughtfully, washing his face and stepping around Sam to leave the bathroom.

Following, Sam saw him fold himself onto the bed closest to the door. "Okay, Sammy," he said softly. "I'll run with the assumption this is what's going on. When the concussion heals, I should see my own features where they belong, right?"

"Right."

Dean's eyes closed. "Okay. Keep me straight till then?"

"You know I will."

Nodding, Dean muttered, "Boy, Uncle Bobby's gonna get about thirty miles of material out of this..."

Sam chuckled, knowing Dean was probably right.

They were in for an interesting few weeks.

END


End file.
